


And Of Course The Sun

by l0verboy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, M/M, Rating May Change, a little bit of, but not really it depends on who you ask, they are both kind of dicks at the start but they make each other better people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-21 16:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30024633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0verboy/pseuds/l0verboy
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 6





	1. one

_ “August of another summer, and once again I am drinking the sun.” _

_ -Mary Oliver _

  
  


There is something about returning to the place in which you grew up in that makes your chest just a little tight. It’s been over two years. Two of the possible weirdest years of Grantaire’s life. Two years away from Paris and somehow, the Eiffel tower still stands exactly where he had left it. The city still buzzes with the same energy, as if it had held its breath until his return. 

He’s back now. 

Exhale.

Three years ago he was so desperate for some big, thorough change that would take his worn little life, throw it in a metaphorical washing machine and turn it completely inside out, so that he could be someone new, someone better. He didn't care why, he just wanted to get away.

But right now? Right now, he’s just grateful for the streets just as familiar to him as his worn out boots. Perfectly scuffed. 

So Grantaire is nervous. That’s fine. He’s fine. His churning stomach and sweaty palms are perfectly fine. 

He stops outside of the building and waits. It’s a nice building, distinctly Parisian in its style but still modern. Someone who isn’t Grantaire at this moment, would probably even consider it inviting. He takes out his phone, checks the time (only a minute had passed since he last checked) and places it back in his jeans’ pocket. 

He isn't sure what exactly he is waiting for; some act of God that will miraculously absolve him from entering the building maybe. 

He considers just turning around and leaving and how much of an asshole he can allow himself to be, sighs, and walks in. 

It’s all Jehan’s fault.

**\-----------------**

Maybe they moved out. It  _ had  _ been over 2 years after all. 

As Grantaire stood in front of the old block of apartments, he couldn't help but stare at the innocuous slab of concrete at his feet. It had started to rain and the concrete was slowly becoming a dark grey, almost black. A tree had stood there before. It wasn't a particularly beautiful tree, not more then any other tree on the street, and the birds living on it had always made sure to shit all over their path like it was their duty. Maybe it was. 

But the tree was now gone, and so was the crudely written ‘ _ E + J + G’ _ Grantaire had scratched onto its bark, back when they all first moved in to their shitty little apartment flat.  _ La maison du bonheur _ , they called it. 

Grantaire continued staring at the concrete, tapping it with his foot. He had his roots planted here too, once.

He wondered how long the tree had been gone; wondered what Jehan and Éponine had thought about it being gone. He could picture Jehan so clearly, chaining himself to the tree.  _ “If you want her, you’ll have to go through me first!”  _ he would have shouted, curling around it like he was the bark itself. Éponine would have stood by him, minus the chains, intimidating whoever it was that took their tree with that one look she did. 

Grantaire’s eyes inevitably travelled to the windows on the 7th floor of the building. A raindrop hit his left eye. The blinds were open but he couldn’t see into the flat from there. They used to have these ugly yellow curtains from the 70’s that Éponine hated. He scratched the back of his head. Maybe they didn't care about the tree at all. 

He was reaching into his bag and digging out a pack of cigarettes- nearly gone, he noted, he shouldn’t chainsmoke- when he heard the door to the building open with a grunt of the old hinges. 

Grantaire didn’t move.

“I knew it was you,” Jehan was saying, momentarily frozen, and then advancing towards Grantaire with a few quick steps. He looked different. Of course he did. “I knew it was you! I saw you from my window and called ‘Ponine but she didn't believe me at first. See! See, I told you it was him!”

Jehan was smiling widely at him and Grantaire felt something inside of him loosen at the seams. He looked at the brunette behind Jehan, her crossed arms wrapping protectively around her small frame, smaller then before. Her mouth was a firm line. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Hi,” Grantaire said, plastering on his most casual smile. The unlit cigarette in his shaking hand was almost crushed. 

Jehan opened his mouth but didn't seem to find anything to say. He shook his head, still smiling, and pulled Grantaire into a tight hug. He smelled faintly like oranges. Grantaire didn't even realise he had forgotten about that. He didn’t realise how much his arms, his heart, missed his best friend.

“You said you would write postcards.”

Grantaire looked up at Éponine, somehow surprised to hear her voice be so cold. Maybe he remembered it wrong. He tried to catch her eye again but she was staring at his bags. “I did,” he said, pulling back from Jehan. He did- at first. It got easier not to. 

Éponine looked up then. “Yeah,” she said, “and then you stopped for 20 months. We couldn't even call you. We thought you were lying dead somewhere, you selfish bastard!”

“ Éponine !” Jehan’s eyes were wide, panicked, like she was going to cause Grantaire to disappear again. 

She didn’t wait for a reply, walking swiftly back into the building. The slam of the door behind her echoed in Grantaire’s chest.

“Hey, hey,” Jehan soothed. It made something within Grantaire flinch, to see how gentle he is being. He’s not some spooked animal, he was not going to go running- again. He wanted Jehan angry at him, he had a right to be, but instead Jehan was taking Grantaire’s face into his hands, cradling his cheeks in his palms, and Grantaire could have cried. “I missed you, you know? We both did.” 

Grantaire nodded, not trusting his voice in that moment. 

Jehan nodded back. He searched Grantaire’s eyes and Grantaire prayed that he saw everything he should been saying to him there. Maybe he did, because his mouth was smiling again, green eyes crinkling at the corners. Jehan was all peaceful waves, gently making contact with the shore. Grantaire felt like he had been lost at sea in a storm. 

“Come on, we’re gonna catch a cold. Let’s bring your stuff inside.”

Grantaire followed him in, taking in a deep breath before he braced seven stories of stairs. Of course, lack of a functional elevator is one thing they wouldn't have changed here.

Jehan talked most of the way up, catching him up on everything he could think of. 

He’s writing poetry again. Eponine is crushing on some guy. The bakery they used to buy their breakfast in has closed. They have new neighbors- they’re loud. They cut the tree outside down. Jehan bikes now. There’s a new art space that has opened.

“You have to check it out,” Jehan said, struggling to carry one of Grantaire’s suitcases up the winding stairs. His red hair, held in loose braids and plastered to his forehead with rain, had grown considerably since Grantaire last saw him. “They just opened a few months ago. It’s.. different. Good different. There’s art, gigs, poetry nights- You’re gonna love it!”

And Grantaire did. He waited two whole days before he gave in and went. 

It was strange, being back home, and Grantaire was still unsure of what to do with himself. But then again, that was nothing new. The apartment felt different. It was still the same place they had chosen all together, back when they were all bright eyed and excited about their second year at university, but something had shifted and he felt impossible restless.

Eponine was mostly avoiding him, making sure to only use the kitchen when he wasn't there. They had not spoken yet, unless you counted Grantaire’s unanswered ‘good morning’s and ‘good night’s. 

On the other hand, Jehan was her polar opposite. Spending as much time as he possibly could with Grantaire, making him coffee even as Grantaire protested, listening attentively to Grantaire’s stories of his travels but not pushing. Jehan was trying to mollify him, prevent him from running again. 

Grantaire wasn't ready to confront the feeling of guilt that caused yet. His chest still felt like a wasp’s nest. 

He had to get out of the apartment, just for a little while. So he went to the art space Jehan told him about.

It was a nice space - big, open, alive with energy. Jehan was right. There were two wings which were essentially art galleries, divided into traditional and contemporary. Between the wings was a large space where people sat and talked, drinking smoothies and coffees, behind them sat a stage. Grantaire guessed that in the evenings this must be the area used for gigs and the poetry slams Jehan had mentioned. 

He walked around the whole building, shamelessly impressed, and by the time he was leaving, he grabbed that stupid application just like he promised.

The whole walk home he was overly aware of it resting in his bag, partly convinced it had transformed into a large, heavy rock with the intense pressure on his shoulders.

By the time he got to their little flat, he was certain that he had to throw it away. Only, when he got in, Eponine was in their kitchen, chopping tomatoes, and when he walked in she said, “heard you went to  _ Les Amis  _ today.” 

And it's not a question but Grantaire still answers. “Yeah, really cool place. You’ve been?”

She doesn’t look up from the chopping board as Grantaire comes to sit on the other side of the kitchen table. Not even when he quickly reaches out and snatches a piece of tomato, popping it into his mouth, hoping to flash her a wicked grin when she looks up at him. Nothing. 

This used to be their favourite spot to hang out, the kitchen. They would all come home after a long day, exhausted in the way twenty-one year olds are, and they would all sit around this table; wine and card games waiting for them. One night, when things were going especially bad for all of them, they sat at this table and drank until they found themselves dancing on top of it. Weeks later, Grantaire told them he was leaving here.

“Yeah. I go with Jehan to his poetry nights. He’s really good,” she said, voice perfectly level, but she was gripping the knife. There was a loose strand of hair falling in front of her face and Grantaire wondered if she was aware of it.

“I know that. He’s talented, he can go far.” 

“Yeah,” she stopped chopping, looking up at him. Finally. She quickly tucked the lock of hair behind her ear. “I always said you had potential too.”

Ah. So Jehan had told her what happened last summer.

Potential. God, that fucking word. Grantaire despises it.

Still, being looked at as someone with potential was still better than how they looked at him now. He doesn't want pity and he certainly doesn't want to see this sad look pulling at the edges of Jehan’s face when he thinks Grantaire can’t see. He doesn't want to see him grieving the future he was supposed to have. 

It was all wrong. He wanted his friends to see his art, see him, the way they used to, the way he never did. Like something precious, something bright and full of promise and  _ potential _ . The way they used to look at him before he left.

The realisation was enough to make Grantaire take out a bottle of wine. Fuck it, he thought. 

Eponine watched him silently as he took out two glasses, pouring the wine generously. He downed half of it before he said: “I applied to exhibit my work at that new place.”

**\-----------------**

Grantaire is there early, he notes. He’s fine. He might also be insane. That seems to be the only plausible explanation for why he would even briefly consider his art good enough for this gallery. He remembers last summer all too well. 

He sits by the reception and watches people- cool people, put together people, people who belong there- walk by him, excitedly chatting about art much better than his. 

It’s 12:41. Nearly 20 minutes left until his interview, fuck. 

What exactly is he trying to prove here?

The day had already started off terribly. He woke up hungover, a cruel reminder that he is in fact not twenty years old anymore, and the headache had not yet fully cleared by the time Jehan had cooked them all breakfast. Things are better, they’re getting better, is what he’s telling himself- is what he told himself as he watched his two old best friends dance around their kitchen, their morning ritual perfected and not including him. 

It didn't get better from there. Oh no.

Grantaire was halfway to the  _ Les Amis,  _ trying to adjust to the distinct smell of Paris metro in summer _ , _ when he realised he forgot his cigarettes at home. He was on edge enough, the uneven breathing, the tingle in his fingertips, when he ran out of the metro and straight into a man.

Grantaire had swore and apologized profusely as he watched the content of the man’s coffee cup fly onto the man’s very white, very clean shirt. 

“What the fuck?” The man exclaimed, uselessly holding his now empty cup away from his chest. He was around Grantaire’s age, maybe a little younger. 

Grantaire had the passing thought that he would love to draw him. 

He shook his head. Not the time. “I’m sorry, man,” he said “I really didn't see you there and-”

“Maybe next time you should look where you’re going,  _ man. _ ”

Grantaire gritted his teeth. He could just get on the next train and go home, take a long nap, forget this day. “Look, it’s my bad, I know,” he said, gesturing to the now mostly brown shirt, “do you want some money for a new coffee or something?”

The man looked at Grantaire like he thought what he was saying was the stupidest thing he ever heard. “Coffee? What? No. No, I don't care about the coffee. I have to go to work,” he gestured wildly at his chest, “like this!”

“Oh, right,” Grantaire replied dumbly. The man looked at him for a second before shaking his head and moving to walk past him. “Wait! I have a spare t-shirt in my bag if you want it. It’s clean.”

The man considered him, brows pinched. He eventually held out an impatient hand and Grantaire scrambled to search through his bag, pausing when his hand landed on a t-shirt he got from Eponine. He didn’t know it was this one in there. He glances up at the man who’s giving him an annoyed ‘well?’ look. Fuck. 

“Here,” he sighs, placing it in the man’s waiting hand. He barely heard the ‘thanks’ the man tossed him before he was walking past Grantaire and disappearing into the crowd. “Asshole.”

Now, sitting at the reception, Grantaire is missing one of his favourite t-shirts, he’s unsettled, he needs a smoke, his body feels like a live wire and his leg won’t stop bouncing. Finally, he jumps up, grips his portfolio tighter (only briefly considering throwing it away) and starts pacing down a corridor. 

The corridor happens to lead to one of the exhibition rooms of the contemporary art wing, a brightly lit open space, and as Grantaire slows down to take the art in, he feels his body calm down a little at the familiarity of it, which in turn only serves to make him feel sick again.

He spends a few minutes staring blankly at the paintings, his mind on fire. He could go home now, give up. Sure, Jehan and Eponine would be disappointed but probably not surprised. What's one more thing he gave up on? He could also stay. He could try for the interview, maybe get a nice spot in the gallery. Somewhere like here, where the light shines just right. He could make pieces just for it. He could fail too. He could crash and burn and crash again. Except this time, his friends would be there to witness it in person.

An older woman comes to stand next to him by a particular painting, smelling faintly of expensive soap and in his peripheral vision, Grantaire sees her watching him. “Nice, right?” She eventually asks, “ the colors are so alive.”

Grantaire hums, never quite sure what to reply. Art school never managed to teach him that. 

The woman leans closer to the painting, a straight finger tracing lines inches from the actual thing. “I just love his brush strokes, don't you?” 

He hums again.

She is undeterred. “Apparently it's about his father, did you know that?”

Grantaire glances at the little placard besides the painting. It lists the title ( _ Couleurs du jour) _ and the artist’s name ( _ M. Moreu)  _ but nothing beyond that. Maybe she’s a fan.

“Oh, but I suppose it’s all subjective, really,” she carries on, scarf-wrapped head tilting to one side in consideration. “That’s the thing sometimes, with art, you create something that could be a picture-form of your most intimate diary entry, show the world your insides- so to speak- and they look at it and say it’s actually a painting of a donkey.”

Yeah. Grantaire knows something about that.

“What do you see?” She asks, dark eyes focusing on Grantaire’s face for the first time.

Grantaire leans a little towards her, corners of his mouth tugging up. “Well, are you sure this definitely  _ isn't _ a donkey?

She doesn't laugh. Grantaire looks back at the painting. He shrugs. 

He doesn't see a donkey, although he kinda wishes he did. He sees summer in the strokes of orange paint. He sees a busy train, sees two people close together in the heat, sees sticky thighs pressing together. He shakes his head.

“I think it's purgatory,” he says. When he looks back, the woman is halfway across the room, given up on getting anything out of him. 

  
  


**\-----------------**

If you asked him, Grantaire couldn’t tell you exactly how it happened but before long he’s finished answering all the questions and is discussing ugly babies in renaissance art with the man who has introduced himself as Courfeyrac. 

Grantaire didn't know what to expect. He had tried getting his work into galleries before; had sat with middle-aged men who flipped through his portfolio, bored, asked him how much he usually makes off his pieces, and shut down as soon as they heard the answer.

Courfeyrac was not that. 

He had a kind face. That was the first thing Grantaire had noticed about him, a kind face and warm, dark brown eyes. The second was that he was young, only a year older then Grantaire. 

He explained that the  _ Les Amis de l’ABC  _ (“Get it? Do you get it? Because the pun-”) was started by him and his two friends as a way to build community, provide safe spaces, and help the arts. Grantaire wasn't sure how much they could accomplish, realistically, but he still had been nodding enthusiastically.

“So, you said you’re new in the city, yeah?” Courfeyrac asks and Grantaire doesn't have time to tell him he’s actually from here before the other man continues. “We are doing a gig tonight and you should totally come along and meet Combeferre, Enjolras and Feuilly! It’s perfect” 

Grantaire stares back at him for a second, the corners of his mouth twitching. “So, just.. I.- Does that mean that I- did I pass the interview?”

Courfeyrac laughs, an open, amazed laugh. “What? Of course dude, your art is fucking awesome. We’d love to have it exhibited here! So that means you'll be there tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies, laughter spilling out of him. Jehan was right, this place is certainly different.

\-----------------

Walking into the building this time, Grantaire is buzzing with a different sort of nervous energy. The whole place seems different now, transformed by the night. It’s not where he was during the day. He’s not who he was during the day.

He can do this.

Eponine is by his side, which Grantaire pretends not to be surprised about. She came out of her room, minutes before Grantaire had to leave, dressed in a black dress and an oversized denim jacket. She looked nice, she always did. When he just blinked at her, she declared that she’s not staying home while he and Jehan go have fun. 

He saw the small gesture behind it, he had come home shaking and nauseous and not looking forward to going alone, but neither of them speak of it and for that Grantaire is grateful. It’s something she and Grantaire always just got with each other, knowing when to not speak about things.

Walking in, they follow the faint sound of music and people, leading them to the large area with a stage in the back where a band is playing something indie rock. The lights are dim and illuminate the whole room a shade of blue that makes the smiling faces in the crowd appear kind of alien. Grantaire briefly watches the band play; there’s only three of them, two of them are simultaneously playing and singing, and surprisingly, they are decent.

Eponine squeezes his shoulder and when he looks down at her, she nods towards the bar, where earlier in the day Grantaire assumed they only sold coffees and the like. “Jehan just texted me, he's going to be here soon. Let’s get a drink,” she says and the two of them proceed to snake their way through the crowd. 

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.” 

Grantaire smiles back at Courfeyrac who is standing behind the bar, mixing some kind of cocktail. Seems like the man is working multiple jobs. Like the building, Courfeyrac also seems changed; his fancy shirt is mostly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a wicked glimmer in his dark eyes.

He greets him and orders a drink for himself and Éponine, who is already distracted making eye contact with someone across the room. She’s gonna leave him here soon, he knows it, he doesn't mind as much as he thought he would.

“That’s Marius,” Courfreyac says, handing them their drinks, amusement dancing in his words as he nods at the man in question, “and the guy he’s talking to is Combeferre. You should go talk to them.”

Éponine seems to love this idea as she grabs a hold of Grantaire’s arm, nearly spilling his drink in the process, and tugging him across the room with a quick ‘thanks’ thrown over her shoulder to Courfeyrac.

As they approach them, the two men pause their conversation and smile questioningly at them. 

“Hi, I uh, he said to come and speak to you,” Grantaire says, vaguely gesturing to where Courfeyrac was with his free hand. “I’m Grantaire?”

Recognition sparks on their faces as they nod enthusiastically at him. One of them reaches out to shake his hand and introduces himself as Marius. He’s a handsome man in the most ordinary way; tall, lean, light brown hair curling around his ears. “Welcome,” he says, “we’re all excited to get to know you.”

Grantaire smiles, overwhelmed and not quite sure how to respond. Luckily, he’s saved by the man then extending his hand out to Éponine, who places her own in his palm with a giggle. Huh. “Enchante, I’m Marius,” he says, leans down to kiss her knuckles. “I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” 

“Yes! I mean, yeah, probably. I come here with my friend sometimes. He’s called Jehan, he does poetry nights here. He’s really good. I’m Éponine.” She giggles again and a quick look flashes in her eyes that Grantaire easily recognises- she’s gonna be embarrassed about this later. 

The two of them fall into a conversation and Grantaire sips on his drink as he scans the crowd only occasionally stealing glances at his friend. He’s surprised, trying to remember the last time he saw Eponine act this way around anyone; when they were young teens maybe.. It's usually the other way round, she has them all wrapped around her little finger, and she knows it.

All of a sudden, Combeferre taps his shoulder, nodding his head in another direction so Grantaire follows him as they step away from the buzzing crowd. 

“Okay, so I spoke to Enjolras and Feuilly,” Combeferre starts, leaning in conspiringly, “and actually, if you were interested, we are opening a small new wing of the gallery and we were supposed to have it centered around this guy, but it fell through, and well...we would love it if you could step in. We really love your work, there's so much passion in it,” Combeffere says, smiling warmly at Grantaire whose stomach is already twisting into an unforgiving knot. 

A whole section of the gallery dedicated to him? His work as the focus of an opening night? Grantaire could be sick. Correction- he will be sick. Is he looking pale?

“It's okay. Think it through,” Combeffere says, a steady hand coming to rest on Grantaire’s shoulder. There is something solid and warm about Combeferre that calms him somewhat. “But for now, have a drink and have fun.” 

Grantaire feels himself nod, attempt a smile, and then he’s walking away. Éponine had disappeared somewhere, probably with the Marius guy, so he ends up drifting around the room until he settles by a wall, gaze directed to the stage but completely zoned out as he sips his drink. He’s not ready for all this, not yet. They’re not ready for it either, not for all the inevitable crashing and burning.

He tries to search the crowd for familiar faces, tries to imagine himself as part of...all this, but he can’t. There’s too many people and not enough air in the room to think properly. This isn't what was meant to happen at all, he wasn't even supposed to get an interview. He’s going to let so many people down.

He’s saved from his thoughts by the sudden appearance of Jehan who pulls him into a hug and he inhales the comforting smell of oranges and patchouli, feeling safer somewhat.When they pull back, Jehan is smiling warmly at him. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m all good man. Marvellous even.” -

The sudden glint in the redhead’s eyes scares him a little. “So... funny thing..” Jehan says, “did you and Enjolras hook up and when? How was it? When did you even have time for it? I’m only, like, 15 minutes late?”

“Wha- Who?” Grantaire blinks at him confused. He’s beginning to suspect this is all part of the dream that he’s so clearly in. He tries to think of possible suspects but quickly stops short. “I didn't hook up with anyone since I’ve been back.”

Jehan raises one unimpressed brow. “‘Taire,” he says, dragging out the name. He turns around and points a long finger at the other side of the room. “That is your tee. The one from Eponine? I’m not stupid.”

Grantaire strains to see anyone who Jehan might be possibly talking about but the room is dark and packed full. He almost turns to say that he doesn't know what he is possibly talking about when he spots him. 

The man from earlier, the one he spilled his coffee on is right there, standing with Combeferre and laughing about something. He looks simultaneously more tired then before but also more relaxed, he’s not standing up so rigid now. He’s still wearing the t-shirt. He looks good, Grantaire notes. 

Grantaire tunes in to hear Jehan say “...don't get me wrong, I think you and him are so hot but I hope it isn't just to get a space in the gallery because, trust me, you’d get in regardless.” At Grantaire’s confused look he continues, “Grantaire, darling, I know you have had some ups and downs but you are a very talented artist and you could definitely get into any gallery you want. Well maybe not the Louvre- but then again you're not a woman so who knows, that definitely increases your chances.”

Grantaire continues to gape at him, eyes flickering over at the man, caught on him. “Wait. No. Rewind” he says, shaking his head, “what did you say? Who is he?”

Jehan gasps, one hand flying to his heart in an overly dramatic way. “You hooked up with him without even getting a name? Outrageous! ‘Taire you harlot.That’s Enjolras, he’s one of the founders of this place.”

Huh. Okay. Interesting.


	2. two

“So, are you excited for opening night?” Feuilly asks, adjusting his grip on the heavy cardboard box between them. They had spent most of the day clearing out the new wing of the gallery, preparing to paint the walls and clean the floors. For the opening night. Right.

He’s heard of biting off more than you can chew but he’s never quite dislocated his whole metaphorical jaw like this before.

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies. “You don’t even know.”

Feuilly laughs a little, dimples on display. “Don’t worry, there’s still four weeks left. Plenty of time for us to make this place sparkle.” 

Grantaire likes Feuilly, likes having someone here at the gallery he can relax around. He was unsure at first, overwhelmed by pressure even before he saw how hard Feuilly worked at the gallery- making sure everything was running properly, always in motion. But he never pushes or rushes Grantaire, seems to understand that everyone moves at their own pace. Grantaire’s mother would have called him a sweet boy, he’s sure of it. 

“Besides,” Feuilly is saying now, broom already in his hands, “you don't even have to worry about the actual opening night; the invitations and the social mechanics behind it, that’s all Enjolras. You just help me get the space ready and work your magic on them canvases.”

Grantaire nods in reply, rubs the back of his neck. The heat of the day had slowly found them, even here at the back of the gallery and the physical work doesn't help.

He hasn't actually spoken to the famed Enjolras since the guy ran off with his t-shirt. Which, Grantaire still hasn't got back! 

It's confusing. Everyone at the gallery, hell, even Jehan at home, speaks about Enjolras like he is an angel, all the things lovely in the world personified, and Grantaire wonders if he is missing something. The guy is an asshole. He learned this the very moment the two of them met and hasn't been proven wrong since.

Whenever Grantaire sees Enjolras running around the gallery or discussing things with others, (but never with him), he has the same stone cold expression on his face. Like someone just spilled coffee on him. Ha. He’s usually frowning, eyebrows stitching together and chewing on his bottom lip as he listens to someone, usually Combeferre, talk to him.

Other times, he is an explosion of light; a molotov cocktail in the crowd. His voice carries throughout the gallery, excited and fiery and commands the attention of everyone around him with such ease. He also waves his hands a lot.

Not that Grantaire has been watching him.

Feuilly comes up to him as he finishes sweeping the floor, looking excited.“Hey, so, you mentioned that you need a space to paint, right?” 

Grantaire agrees, hesitantly. He mentioned it off handedly to Feuilly a few days ago, saying that his room back at his apartment is too small to paint in. He had a space, two years ago, at his old university, but he left before he had to look for a new one.

“Great!” Feuilly grins, clapping his hands together. “Perfect. Come with me.”

Grantaire hesitates but follows the man down the corridor in the new wing and into one of the rooms they had cleaned yesterday. He had assumed this room would also be used as part of the exhibition space, but looking at Feuilly’s excited face and ‘ta-da’ hands he’s not so sure now. 

“What do you think? They said we won't be using this room as part of the exhibition, something about messing with the flow of the experience. I don't really know. But anyway, this room will mostly be the spare room so… everyone agreed you can use it to paint in! The lighting is really good here if you uncover the windows- here, look!”

Grantaire is kind of speechless. His heart is pounding, hot in his chest.

Feuilly turns from excitedly opening up all the windows, glances at Grantaire’s face and stops. “Um. If you don't want it, that's no problem. We can just-”

“No! No, it’s okay. It’s great! I love it!,” Grantaire rushes out, “I just wasn't expecting it. Thank you.”

Of course he wasn't expecting it. The universe is laying it all out before him, laughing cruelly as he considers accepting it, accepting that it could be for him finally.  _ Here, _ the universe is saying,  _ look what you could have, how these people could care about you if only you weren't about to fuck it all up. _

Feuilly smiles kindly at him, patting him on the back as he walks past him. “Come on, break time. I think we’re done for the day.”

Grantaire nods but stands in place for a while, looking around him slowly. It isn't a massive room, but much bigger than his room at the apartment and the windows, now opened, make it seem even bigger. The afternoon sun bathes the room in its light, catches Grantaire’s hair. There are still boxes in corners of the room, things that will be used for the exhibition- his exhibition- but the centre of the room stands empty, not cold but welcoming. 

Grantaire sways a little in place.

_ What is he even doing here? How far will he let all this go? _

He sighs, closes the door slowly. Feuilly is right, time for a break.

The walk through the gallery is quick, he only stops once, nodding at Courferyac who blows him a kiss in return before turning back to the visitor he was speaking to, making Grantaire let out a breath of laughter. 

By the time he’s outside of the gallery, there is already an unlit cigarette hanging lazily between his lips. He searches his pockets for a lighter, checks again, and groans audibly when it doesn't turn up. His hands are shaking a little so he squeezes them together for a second and searches again.

“Need a light?”

Grantaire looks up, gaze following the hand holding out a baby pink lighter to the friendly face smiling at him. It belongs to a short, lithe guy, dark hair frames his face and a pair of pink heart-shaped sunglasses rests on his nose. This face, Grantaire realises, is familiar to him but the memory is hazy. 

“Sure, thanks man,” Grantaire says and leans down to let the guy light the cigarette for him. Grantaire breathes out, deeply, feels his heart rate slowing down. The guy smiles politely back at him, pocketing the lighter. “Do you want a cig?”

The guy shakes his head at the offering in Grantaire’s hand, laughs. “I don't smoke.”

Grantaire quirks an eyebrow. Pyromaniac? Candle lover? He could see both.

“My, uh..Bousset smokes and he always forgets his lighter so…” the guy explains, his cheeks flushing a little. He’s focusing on something beyond Grantaire’s shoulder.

Bousset… right! The band! That’s where Grantaire knows him from, of course. “You heading to band practice then?” Grantaire asks, only slightly proud of himself and trying not to show it. 

The guy- Joly, Grantaire mentally amends- grins back at him but shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I’m actually heading to the rooftop, I’m doing some work on the garden in my spare time.”

“There’s a rooftop garden?” No one had mentioned it to him before. Grantaire turns his head, trying to see over the top of the gallery building but the sun makes him squint and give up.

Joly is looking a little surprised himself, as if he said something he is now considering he shouldn't have. “Yes? It’s really nice. Still working on it, you know, but it’s gonna be great. It was Enjolras’ idea.”

Right. Grantaire isn't shocked. 

Joly pushes his sunglasses into his hair, undoubtedly sweaty from the inescapable heat of the day, and he seems to consider Grantaire for a minute as Grantaire finishes his cigarette, pretending to be unaware of being watched. Pretending to be at ease. 

“You should come check it out sometime, the garden.”

Grantaire stubs out the cigarette beneath his shoe, careful of the ant marching past it. “Sure,” he says like he means he won't, not really, “maybe I will.”

**\---------------------**

No matter what, Grantaire thinks, he can never truly hate painting. 

He sits back and stretches until he hears the satisfying sound of his bones clicking in place, flexes his left hand, cramped from hours of holding a paintbrush. He’s not even sure how long it’s been since he started painting, only that he had to at some point get up to turn on the lights when the sun had set and even then, he’s not sure of how long ago that was.

The loud rumble of his stomach tells him  _ too long _ .

He gets up slowly, joints protesting after being in the same position for so long. He moves around the space, trying to clean it up somewhat before promptly giving up. As he looks at the large canvas propped against one of the walls, the thought that he should get an easel nearly crosses his mind briefly but he catches it before it can settle in his brain. No point. None of it is permanent, anyway.

He looks at his painting again, tilts his head in all different directions. It could be something. 

He digs out his phone from his back pocket, notes the message from Jehan asking him what time he will be home, notes the low battery, notes the time. 

The time. 

Fuck.

It’s well past midnight and Grantaire scrambles through his own mind to remember if Feuilly had said anything about any special events going on tonight, just anything that would mean the gallery is staying open till late. 

The silence that has settled over the gallery, safe for Grantaire’s quiet breathing, confirms his conclusion. 

He swears, loudly, and walks out of the room. 

Surely, he’s not the last idiot in the building. Surely, there's some other artist who had been working away at their piece now having the same realisation as him. Surely, at least a cleaner.

No one. 

Not a single person is left in the building except for Grantaire. 

He wanders through the corridors, part of him wanting to call out to anyone who could still be there, part of him suddenly very aware of every horror movie he’s ever seen. 

Stopping by the main entrance, he considers trying to open the door before he remembers the possibility of an alarm going off. 

He sighs, texts back Jehan:  _ LATE. Don't wait up for me !  _ and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the right name.

Courfeyrac answers on the 5th ring, just when Grantaire was about to give up hope entirely. “What,” he says, voice rough from sleep and definitely unhappy to be so clearly woken up.

Grantaire nearly says not to worry, it was an accidental call but he feels like his stomach is about to eat itself so he drawls out a long “heyyyy, Coureferyac. My favorite guy. My man. My super understanding frien-”

“What do you want, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac groans and for a second, Grantaire is sure he can hear someone else whispering on the other side of the phone. He doesn't ask. 

“Well, you know how the gallery shuts really early today-”

“It shuts at 10.”

“Right! Right, at 10. Well, guess who might not have been aware of that  _ or  _ the fact that he should probably notify someone that he is still on premises so that he doesn't get locked in? Hint: he’s a very forgivable guy who you would just love to help out!”

“Grantaire…” he groans. 

“Bingo!”

The line goes quiet for a moment and Grantaire presses down on the cafe bench seats, considering how bad his back will be fucked up from sleeping here. He guesses very.

He eventually picks up on some back and forth whispering on the other side of the phone and he sends a quick prayer to whoever is out there that the other person is currently convincing Courfeyrac to come to his rescue.

The sudden voice in his ear again nearly makes him jump. “Fine,” Courfeyrac says, “hold tight.”

Grantaire doesn't get time to reply before the line goes dead. 

He walks over to sit down in the reception by the front entrance as he waits. The main lights have all been switched off and he’s not sure how to even try turning them on and if that would trigger any alarm, but he’s not a big fan of the large windows when faced with the night outside. 

The longer he sits there, the more uncomfortable he gets. He has no idea how long Courfeyrac will be as he has no idea where Courfeyrac even lives. When his phone tells him only a few minutes had passed since the call, he decides to walk back to his room. He means the spare room. Whatever.

He tries to work a little more on his painting but tiredness has started to creep into him, sinking into his already present irritation and making him annoyed with every brush stroke he tries to add. 

Giving up, he instead sits back against the wall, beside the canvas, and closes his eyes. Images of wave upon wave of paint splash across the inside of his eyelids and he pictures himself wading through it all, waist deep in colour. 

He jerks up when he hears a faint sound coming from somewhere in the gallery. A cold fear washes over him momentarily before he realises it must only be Courefreyac coming to his rescue. 

“Hello?” He calls out, rising from the cold floor. “I’m in here!”

“Grantaire?” A voice calls back, sounding closer now. He can hear footsteps too.

Grantaire freezes. It doesn't sound like Courefreyac.

He looks around frantically, trying to find something to use to defend himself in case a violent burglar has just broken into the gallery. There are not many options. As the sound of the footsteps grows closer, he settles on his largest paintbrush, clutching it tight in his hand. 

It’s only when the door to the room is beginning to open that he realises the chances of a random burglar knowing his name. 

“Enjolras?” He asks, frowning at the blond man standing in the doorway. He looks annoyed, reminding Grantaire of how he looked when they first met.

He’s looking at Grantaire, more specifically the paintbrush still being held in a vice grip in Grantaire’s hand and pointed directly at him. 

Grantaire quickly lets go of the paintbrush, runs a hand through his hair. “I called Courfeyrac,” he says slowly, uncertain why it was Enjolras standing in front of him. “I got locked in.”

Enjolras seems to ignore the intended question, instead choosing to walk past Grantaire further into the room until he stops in front of his painting. Under the lights, Grantaire can see just how tired the other man looks, red eyes almost highlighted by the red of his jacket.

“I know,” he finally says, still considering the painting, and it takes Grantaire a second to realise he’s answering his question. “He didn't want to get up from bed and get dressed so he made me come instead.”

Grantaire blinks. He thinks of the other person whispering with Courfeyrac in what he presumes was his bed, watches Enjolras’s elegant profile. “Oh, sorry,” he says, scratches the back of his neck. 

“It’s fine, I wasn't sleeping anyway,” Enjolras replies and then his gaze finally lifts from the canvas and settles on the artist. “I like this painting, by the way. It’s good. You’re a good painter.”

Grantaire tries not to read too much into the tone of surprise in Enjolras’s voice. By now, he’s almost certain Enjolras had nothing to do with him getting hired. 

He shrugs, reaching for his backpack. “Thanks. Should we get going? I’m not gonna lie to you man, I’m starving. Nearly raided your supply storage.”

Grantaire counts the tug of Enjolras’s lips as a smile.

They walk down the corridors and through the gallery in silence. Grantaire keeps opening his mouth to start a conversation but it falls shut again when he glances at the man beside him. Enjolras doesn't look at him. 

To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras leads them to the side entrance for staff. Grantaire has never used this door before, usually just waltzing right in through the main entrance and he doesn't ask for his own code or key while he watches Enjolras open the door for them and turn on the security alarm again. 

The daily heat had been washed away by the night and stepping out of the gallery, Grantaire can’t help but shiver slightly. He should have bought a jacket. He should have gone home before it got so cold.

“Well,” Enjolras says, voice clipped. He stands in front of Grantaire, hands deep in his pockets. “Good night.”

“Wait!” Grantaire calls out, watching Enjolras already turn to presumably walk home. He looks back expectantly at Grantaire and arches an eyebrow. “I’m just going to grab some food if you wanna come with me? You know, not being able to sleep anyway and all?”

Enjolras looks a little surprised at the question but he seems to actually pause to consider the offer. That’s enough for Grantaire. 

“Come on,” he adds, dragging the vowels out. “Look, I still owe you for spilling your coffee, right? I know this great Turkish place not too far from here. Food’s on me.”

He can't really afford to be making offers like that right now, not when he knows he will have to give Jehan and Eponine rent money at some point, but Enjolras is now smiling at him and shrugging like he’s resigning himself to follow Grantaire so how bad is it really?

“Lead the way,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire grins in response and they begin walking down the empty street. Enjolras is still quiet, but not uncomfortably so, and Grantaire continues making small remarks whenever he can. Most notably, he points out two rats fighting under a bench and a particular place he had a very drunk encounter in.

They don't walk for long, not long enough for Grantaire to consider the possible repercussions of just walking into his old favorite Turkish place.

It doesn’t hit him for a while; not until they are across the road from it and when he points it out, Enjolras asks him if he’s been before and Grantaire barks out a laugh. 

“Yeah, you could say that,” he chuckles. Enjolras raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask. Grantaire decides to explain anyway.“I practically grew up on their food, used to go for a kebab every day after school. Eventually they stopped charging me, must have felt bad for me or something.”

At his side, Enjolras grins at him, bright. “That’s awesome. That’s what it's all about, you know, community support, mutual aid.” 

Grantaire halts a little, memories of his younger self running through him. He wonders if Yusef still works there. He thinks of maybe going somewhere else, anywhere else, but he’s holding open the door for Enjolras and the blond is already walking in. 

There are two men behind the counter.  _ Young _ men, Grantaire notes with a small sigh. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. The men look familiar to him somewhat and he wonders if he’s seen them around here before, and if he has they must have been just starting out when he left. 

“What can I get you?” One of the men asks but Grantaire doesn’t get a chance to answer. He’s frozen in place by the familiar voice calling out from the small kitchen behind the counter. 

Enjolras, blissfully unaware of Grantaire’s momentarily paralysis, reads out something from the small plastic menu and turns towards him expectantly. But Grantaire doesn’t seem incapable of saying his order, not when the owner of the place finally comes out to the front, wiping greasy hands on his jeans.

He stops when he sees Grantaire, but unlike him, he doesn't freeze. Instead he lets out a loud laugh and pushes past the two men to get past the counter.

Yusef’s hands on his shoulder are firm and shake him a little. “I can't believe it's you. Just walking in here like that. Where have you been for so long, son? I thought you were dead somewhere..”

Grantaire laughs a little, ignoring Enjolras’ eyes on him. “Seems like a lot of people thought that.”

Yusef keeps shaking his head like he doesn't believe his eyes. He’s not a very emotional man, Grantaire knows this, so he can’t be blamed for the shock he feels when he’s pulled in for a very tight, albeit quick, hug. 

When they pull apart, Yusef asks him to order his food and busies himself in the kitchen again. That, he expects. And so they order and sit at the small plastic table, across from each other and so close that their knees brush occasionally. 

Grantaire is restless, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his thigh.

Enjolras waits until the food is on the table before he asks about it. “He looked like he saw a ghost,” he says, glancing quickly at Yusef before he looks back down at his drink, swirling his straw around. He looks slightly uncomfortable but curious too. 

“Yeah, maybe he did.” Grantaire shrugs, caught between avoiding Yusef’s gaze and not wanting to look at Enjolras directly. He needs to talk to Yusef. He needs to never come back here again. He needs to change the topic of conversation. “Thanks, by the way,” he says, “for letting me out of the gallery.”

Enjolras smiles a little. “The gallery… since we’ve had it, there’s been many weird situations, but I can’t say I’ve ever had to rescue someone from being locked inside before.”

Grantaire grins at him. “So, how does it feel to be the owner of a gallery?”

“It’s...difficult. The government isn’t exactly keen on supporting us. We don't bring in any profits, not any significant ones, and it’s expensive to keep it all going. Someone suggested we should start charging at the door or ask people to pay if they want to perform,” he scoffs, the idea clearly preposterous. ”I think that would hardly encourage any sense of community. Not to mention the restrictions it would force upon working class creators.”

He pauses, takes another sip of his drink. “What do you think? Afterall, you are one of our artists now.”

Grantaire, who had been watching the crease between his brows deepen as he spoke and imagined himself soothing it with a thumb, now looks down at his food and takes a large bite. “Well, it's kinda naïve,” he says, chewing. “It's idealistic, you know that?”

Enjolras puts his drink down. “Idealistic?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and regarding Grantaire with a measured look. He no longer looks tired.

“Look, I think you have the right intentions. But that’s not how the world works-”

“Don’t patronise me.”

Grantaire throws his hands in defence. “I’m not! I’m just telling you the truth, Enjolras. Trust me, I wish we could all just hold hands and skip around painting and singing and writing poems about the beauty of humanity and not worry about money, but it’s just not how it works. I drowned myself in plenty of bottles thinking of how art is just another product now, made to sell, but I’ve accepted it! You know why?” he asks, leans in a little, “I’m not an idealist.”

Enjolras, swirling his straw around, looks ready to throw his own drink in Grantaire’s face. “It’s not idealistic. It’s just not cynical.” 

Grantaire glances towards the kitchen. Regrets it immediately. 

Yusef is watching him, disappointment evident in his eyes. Grantaire’s face feels hot. “Do all your friends, all the people using your gallery as their platform, know it’s about to collapse? Have you told them that you’re all living in a fantasy bubble and there’s a very big, sharp stick labelled  _ CAPITALISM  _ on its way to pop it?” 

Enjolras’ eyes narrow and he takes in a deep breath. The kind of breath that has Grantaire awaiting a particularly fiery response, perhaps with lots of wild hand gestures included. He leans back in his chair, smirks, and feels like an asshole. He’s not even sure how the conversation had arrived at this point.

He watches Enjolras lean closer for a second, itches for his response. 

What he doesn’t expect is to see Enjolras get up and walk right out through the door without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please i actually kinda hate this chapter... i will re-write it at some point


	3. three

There’s only a few things in life that Grantaire is sure of: French wine is the best wine, every morning the sun rises and every night it sets again, and Enjolras hates him. 

He feels as if he’s sitting in a small boat, rapidly moving down the stream towards the inevitable drop of the waterfall. Surely, it will be just any moment now that Enjolras will tell everyone what he really thinks of Grantaire and that will be that, no more exhibition. 

The day after their little fight, Grantaire spent the whole day with Jehan on the sofa, reminiscing of childhoods and how easier everything used to be when they were younger and still believed that one day, one day when they will be older, things will magically fall into place; they would understand what to do and how to always make the right choices. They couldn't remember exactly how old they were when they stopped believing it would ever happen. 

He goes in the next day expecting to see all of his stuff packed in a box somewhere but he might as well have been expecting Courfeyrac and Combeferre to greet him with pitchforks. 

Shockingly, it's fine. 

Nothing happens and nothing keeps happening as he keeps coming in, helping Feuilly and the rest of them to set up the new wing of the gallery, painting walls, fixing the floors and whenever he has some time, working on his own paintings. He doesn't see Enjolras around much at all and he’s happy about it, relieved. 

One day, Jehan joined him claiming that he’s bored and that he misses Grantaire when he’s at the gallery all day. They sat together listening to music quietly on the radio, Grantaire painting and Jehan alternating between reading and writing his poetry. 

The day itself was grey, rain pouring without a moment of pause but the music was alive and Jehan’s poetry was sweet and at one point Grantaire stood in front of his painting, eyes closed, and swayed a little side to side and allowed himself to sink into the moment. 

How strange, he thought, to feel peace. 

It’s moments like that which make him question everything. Make him question why he had to run and what exactly was he running from. Some days he thinks that perhaps he wasn't running  _ from  _ but running  _ to _ . Running to what exactly he isn't sure. All he knew then was that he just had to get away, he didn't care why.

Someone told him once that he thought Grantaire was trying to outrun life. He ran from him too, eventually.

But it’s moments like that which make him dizzy. The comfort of home being so familiar and strange it takes the breath out of his lungs. How can he feel comfortable and peaceful  _ here _ ? The place he ran from, with the people he abandoned.  _ God.  _

If he is trying to outrun life, he thought, he’s certainly not very good at it.

Life seems to have not only caught up to him but seems to be circling him now, ready to pounce. And it moments like that one, where he considers laying down and offering himself up now to be eaten. Poor lamb. Pathetic.

The second time Jehan joins him, the sun is bright and fills the whole room with warmth. 

There is a bee that has flown through the open window and continues circling the room with a quiet buzz, accompanied by the constant scratch of Jehan’s pencil in his notebook. Grantaire is humming along to some 70’s song the radio is playing and his paintbrush dances across the canvas in tune. 

It’s a good atmosphere, he thinks and feels the shift instantly when the door opens and he turns to see Enjolras walk in. 

Grantaire takes a second to look at him. The slightly dishevelled hair, like a hand had run through it many times, the rolled up sleeves exposing forearms and the nervous shift of his feet. 

“ Um. I have to measure this room if you don't mind. We are thinking of what we can use it for in the future,” he says like he expects Grantaire to say no. Then he looks away from Grantaire and seems slightly surprised to realise there is someone else in the room, although he hides it well with a polite nod to Jehan who only grins in response.

Grantaire frowns, wraps an arm around his middle. “Why would we mind? It's your gallery.”

Enjolras nods slightly, scratches his jaw. “Right. right.” he says, walking further into the room. 

Jehan catches Grantaire’s eyes, smiles something dangerous, and then he’s getting up and reaching a hand out to Enjolras. “Hello,” he says, “we haven't met each other properly but we have seen each other around. I have done a few poetry readings here, it's a pleasure to meet you. I love what you have done with the place.”

Enjolras shakes his hand, glances quickly at Grantaire who in turn looks back at his painting. 

He hears Enjolras reply behind him, sounding a lot more friendly and charming all of a sudden like he’s found his footing. “Thank you,” he says and Grantaire hears the smile in his voice, pictures it perfectly in his mind. “Jehan right? ‘Ferre said he really likes your poetry! I missed the readings you were at but I don't know if I’m a person who  _ gets _ poetry anyway.”

“Nonsense! Poetry is for everyone, in whatever form it comes to you.”

“Whatever that means,” Grantaire says jokingly and he doesn't have to turn around to know Enjolras is looking at him now. It makes him nervous. It makes him want to talk more to feel Enjolras’ gaze on him again. It makes him wish Enjolras would leave. 

“You should join us!” Jehan says and Grantaire hears him clap his hands together. “Do some art with us, take a break from working.”

Grantaire resists the urge to glare at Jehan. 

Et tu Brute?

“Oh. I cant. I’m not good at art.” 

He sounds sheepish, embarrassed. It doesn't stop Grantaire from turning around with a mocking half smile. “So you decide to own an art gallery?”

Jehan shoots him a look and no one speaks for a minute. The bee comes and circles him once and he ignores it.

“ _ I’m fond of lovers but I cannot love _ ,” Jehan says and when Enjolras looks at him sharply, he points to the book beside his notebook. “Franz Kafka. Just finished reading it, seemed fitting.”

Grantaire watches Enjolras chuckle uncomfortably, a part of him enjoying seeing the other man squirm. He seems like he doesn't know how he’s supposed to respond to that. Grantaire doesn't blame him. 

Enjolras clears his throat and says “It's a community space. I know about community.” It’s spoken directly to Grantaire. 

Grantaire knows how this conversation can go and so is glad when Jehan smiles brightly and replies with “That's what I love about this space. The  _ community _ , man.” 

Enjolras finally takes his attention away from Grantaire and smiles back at Jehan, flustered, as if he's not used to hearing compliments and he says a quick thank you and just like that, the conversation is done. 

Grantaire goes back to painting- well, he gets back to mixing colours and applying them in patterns unknown to him, his mind slightly preoccupied. Jehan seems to want to spark the conversation back up, constantly looking up at them both with wide eyes, opening and closing his mouth, but Enjolras is resolutely silent. 

Poor Jehan. 

Grantaire thinks he should probably let him know what an asshole Enjolras is. 

The man in question is walking around the whole room with his measuring tape and a notepad, making sure to get every measurement of every single wall and corner of the room. He especially seems to take his time with the wall facing Grantaire’s back. 

Grantaire tries very hard not to stop painting. 

Instead, he mixes some more paint- a dark, rich red- and watches the bee float towards the window. It’s open, letting in a small breeze, and Grantaire is sure the bee will fly straight out.  _ He  _ would. God, he wants to. Instead, it bounces off the glass once, twice, floats away again. 

Enjolras moves to the next wall, the one to the left of him. Jehan starts quietly singing along to the slightly crackly voice of Bob Dylan on the radio. Jehan has a nice voice, gentle. In another life, Grantaire could see him on stage with a guitar.

Grantaire keeps seeing him in his peripheral. 

He realises he’s not painting anything that resembles anything. There’s a body there, perhaps, but barely visible as if he had painted thick glass over it. He thinks he should paint a window or door there, somewhere. There always has to be a door, an exit.

Then, Enjolras moves to the wall in front of him. When he stands with the window behind him, the sunlight seems to catch his hair on fire; golden curls glowing. And when he bends to measure, Grantaire’s eyes trace the curved line of his back. 

And when Enjolras stands up straight again, his eyes lock with Grantaire’s and neither of them looks away for a second. “Right,” he says, “that’s that.” And then he’s hurrying past him and out of the room. 

“He didn’t write down the last measurements,” Jehan says like he is telling Grantaire a funny anecdote. “Strange man.” 

“Yeah.” 

“But nice, though!” A pause. “I hope he comes by again.”

Grantaire huffs out a small laugh. The bee is back at the window again, hitting the clear glass over and over again. “I doubt it,” he says. “He’s a busy man. Got a whole community to uphold here, after all.” 

Jehan rolls his eyes at him, but he’s smiling. 

_ That’s that _ , Grantaire thinks and watches the bee bounce twice more before it finally finds the opening and just like that, it’s gone. That’s that. 

But it keeps happening.

Enjolras keeps coming back in, more and more often. 

Grantaire doesn’t understand it but he doesn't question it. Not at first, anyway. The fifth time it happens that week, he brings it up to Éponine while they eat dinner together, both of them exhausted from their days. 

Things are good between them now, him and Éponine. 

Not as good as they were before he left, but he doubts that things will ever go back to the way they were before. No. Éponine’s trust is too fragile and her grudges too strong, immovable. Perhaps if he stayed here for longer, re-built their relationship brick by brick. But no, that would take years. Years he doesn't want to think about yet. 

But things between them aren't bad now and in the candlelight glow of their kitchen (Jehan’s idea, of course), he can pretend that he never fucked it up.

“Maybe he’s bored,” she says now, around a mouthful of spaghetti. “Pass the wine. Thanks. Maybe he’s just hiding out, avoiding meetings?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, that’s not very him.”

He doesn't like the way Éponine's eyebrow raises at that. She sips her wine and then leans forward across, props her elbow on the table and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. She’s watching him, searching for something. 

Grantaire wonders if he’s still as easy to read as he was years ago. Easier, probably. He’s feeling quite flayed lately.

“Well,” she says, going back to her food. “Maybe he just likes talking to you.” 

He barks out a laugh. “I doubt that.” 

It’s not like the first time he came in, flowing around the room quietly. No at all. He wouldn't call it arguing, not exactly- although, Enjolras probably would. 

It never starts out that way, of course. All their conversations start out peaceful enough, whether they are about the gallery, the state of politics or the weather. Somehow, they rarely end peacefully. 

Grantaire could lie and say he doesn't enjoy it, say he doesn't enjoy winding Enjolras up, but he won't, at least not to Éponine. There’s no more malice behind it, whatever contempt Grantaire held before, had left him by the time Enjolras paced around him and his canvas, ranting about the inequality in the creative industry and how it all connected to the rising fascism in Western Europe. 

He could also lie and say that he didn't spend his days at the gallery waiting for Enjolras come in with some ridiculous reason- last time, he was there to check how much natural light each corner of the room had- only to come stand by Grantaire and go: “I’m thinking of making all the food free in the canteen and bars free, the payment can be voluntary. If someone can afford it, they will pay. Thoughts?” with a challenging look. 

And how could Grantaire not rile up then?

It’s clear others have also noticed Enjolras’ frequent visits. 

One day, Grantaire walked into the gallery and when he stopped to say hello to Feuilly, who in turn greeted him with a “Oh, watch out for Enj today. He’s not sleeping again so he’s even more irritable than usual. Good luck.” 

Grantaire felt a weird sense of concern wash over him. The feeling of course passed as soon as they started arguing; Enjolras somehow more cutting than usual, hands flying everywhere, words sharp.. He’s seen molotov cocktails in action before, but never seen one contained within a man like this.

He shakes his head, focuses back on Éponine and her smirk, slightly undermined by the orange stain from the spaghetti sauce on her upper lip.

“He’s a good looking guy, you know. Pretty.”

Grantaire shrugs, finishes off his wine. “I haven’t noticed.”

This time it's Éponine who laughs.   
  


\----------------------------

When Grantaire was a young boy he would often spend summers at his grandparent’s house in southern France.

The only reason he was there was because his father couldn’t bear to have him around the house when he wasn’t in school and summer days were oh so long. So as soon as vacation started, he would be packed and on his way. Grantaire didn't care. They lived in the countryside and he loved it there, of course he did. 

His father never left the car when he dropped him off, never went out to greet his grandparents. Grantaire supposes neither of them really wanted to see one another. What would he say to them? Sorry your daughter died? Here’s this little reminder of her?

Grantaire seems to only remember the summers of his life; when he was seven years old and sweet, stupid, sincere and sticky with juice and dizzy with life. When he ran, barefoot, into a nettle bush and watched blisters form next to freshly picked scabs. 

And when he ran to her crying, his grandmother sat him down in her lap, stroked his dark curls gently. The same hair his mother had. He always wondered if his grandmother pictured her daughter there, instead of him. But she would smile at him and she told him not to cry because nettles are good for you, they make you healthy. 

She ran her calloused finger over his blisters and said ‘ _ You will live longer now.’  _ and it sounded like a plea. 

And hours later, in his untamed boyish naivety, he grasped handfuls of the stinging nettles and declared himself king of his now eternal life and crushed the plant between small hands, joyously in pain. 

He thought a lot of his mother during those vacations. 

She was an artist too but she never ran. She stayed. She stayed at her parent’s farm even when given the opportunity to study in Paris. Stayed with the first man she loved, even when he walked all over her. Stayed even when things got so bad that he knew her mother had died long before her funeral. 

But Grantaire knew then, he understood. Understood pain and understood running. He could live forever, in those summers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is just like...we're just hanging out...there's a bee...  
> i promise that actual things will do start happening... eventually 
> 
> also me being a poet, a painter and an university drop out... I really am just sprinkling in self projections in this fic like it's nothing
> 
> PLEASE comment, anything at all, good or bad. i want to know what you think so far

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone still even read fics for this pairing? i certainly hope so
> 
> it doesnt affect the story in any way but fun fact: I inexplicably set this in like 2004 in my head for no reason at all so if you wish you can too imagine them with flip phones and early 00's fashion teehee


End file.
